By Lois M. Collins
Deseret News
Published: December 30, 2008
A Provo mom spent part of her Christmas vacation protesting outside Facebook's Palo Alto headquarters after the social networking site removed a picture of her nursing her infant daughter.
Heather Farley said she used as her profile photo a shot of her daughter Margaret, now 9 months old, nursing because "I thought the picture was sweet, and I liked the relationship that it showed. I want other moms to know that breast-feeding is not something that needs to be hidden."
Facebook instead removed the photo in early November and notified Farley that she had violated the policy prohibiting nudity.
She joined a Facebook group, now 85,000 members strong, called "Hey Facebook, breast-feeding is not obscene." They've launched an online petition asking Facebook to reconsider its policy.
In December, the online protesters, who call themselves "lactivists," planned a virtual "nurse in." As they were hammering out the details, Farley asked if they wanted her to do an actual protect outside the Palo Alto headquarters while she was in California for the holidays. They did, she said, and from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. last Saturday, she and a shifting group of about 25 others — including 10 nursing mothers over the course of the event — protested the policy.
The company, she said, ignored the protest, just as it had ignored her earlier e-mails.
Attempts by the Deseret News to reach a Facebook spokesman Tuesday were unsuccessful, but spokesman Barry Schnitt was quoted by The Associated Press as saying the policy is meant to protect minors. He said most breast-feeding photos are allowed because they follow the site's rules. Photos that show nipples, for example, are removed.
E-mail: Lois@desnews.com
© 2008 Deseret News Publishing Company All rights reserved
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Manipulation, Thy Name is Sydney...
I have tried to teach my children the keys to happiness. I believe that they should be kind, loving and service oriented. I firmly believe that if you can teach a child to master a trait that will make them happier and more successful, you will enhance your children and their future. However, one of my children has taken my teachings to a higher level, a level that will so outperform my skills that it makes me weep for joy. The skill she chooses to emulate is manipulation.
Sydney or the chosen one, as I was will call her from this point on, is a powerful manipulator who gets what she wants, no matter the time or the place. While she is only three years old, she has the uncanny knack of being able to make the world revolve around her and her wishes instantaneously, no matter the circumstance.
She is not afraid to resort to bribery, extortion, emotional distress, physical pain of psychological warfare to accomplish her goals. The force is strong with this one. She is a chip off the ol’ block. A true master’s apprentice.
Take the other night for example, she was trying to get on our bed to go to sleep. Holly is not having any of it, but we all know how to get to Holly, she is simple, she is an easy break. Sydney climbs up on her bed, whispers in her ear, “I’ll play with your hair. I’ll play with your hair for a long time.”
Playing with Holly’s hair will get you everywhere. Take it from me. I know. It works. It works 100 percent of the time. She may be adamant about something, but if you sit next to her and run your hands through her hair, victory is only seconds away.
But if on the odd chance that running your hands through her hair does not work, like this particular night, Sydney knew what to do next. “I’ll tickle your back. I’ll tickle your back for a long time.” That, my friends, is all she wrote. But to see Sydney’s true manipulation skills in action, you simply need to keep reading.
As Holly helps Sydney onto the bed, I get up to get a drink of water. Sensing a golden opportunity, Sydney jumps onto my side of the bed, rolls over and says to Holly, “Tickle my back.” Hearing this, Holly says, “Do not pull the rug out from under me, you promised.” To which, as all good manipulators do when they have someone trapped, Sydney replies, “You would just be alone now anyway, with Daddy gone, so you tickle my back. I know you hate to be alone.”
As Holly tickles her back, I walk back into the room and see Sydney spread out on my side of the bed, asleep. Beaten, I take the couch which is 2 feet away and Sydney sleeps the night away knowing she has been victorious.
Two nights later, not wanting to fall for the same trick, Holly will not let Sydney get up on the bed. Sydney promptly tells Holly that she is never going to play with her hair again and goes out of the room and slams the door.
Five minutes later, Sydney comes back into the room, tells Holly that she is not happy with the last encounter and asked her to tell her, one more time, that she can not sleep on her bed. Holly obliges, and without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney stands up and says, "Holly (not mom), I’m out of here. Talk to the hand.”
I was laughing so hard I asked her to come back in and before we knew it, Sydney was up in the middle of the bed, with both Holly and I tickling her.
It is not often that the master meets a new master, but the baton is ready to be passed. The master has now become the student and the student is now out to get each and everyone of you. You’ve been warned. But don’t worry, believe me, you won’t see it coming.
Sydney or the chosen one, as I was will call her from this point on, is a powerful manipulator who gets what she wants, no matter the time or the place. While she is only three years old, she has the uncanny knack of being able to make the world revolve around her and her wishes instantaneously, no matter the circumstance.
She is not afraid to resort to bribery, extortion, emotional distress, physical pain of psychological warfare to accomplish her goals. The force is strong with this one. She is a chip off the ol’ block. A true master’s apprentice.
Take the other night for example, she was trying to get on our bed to go to sleep. Holly is not having any of it, but we all know how to get to Holly, she is simple, she is an easy break. Sydney climbs up on her bed, whispers in her ear, “I’ll play with your hair. I’ll play with your hair for a long time.”
Playing with Holly’s hair will get you everywhere. Take it from me. I know. It works. It works 100 percent of the time. She may be adamant about something, but if you sit next to her and run your hands through her hair, victory is only seconds away.
But if on the odd chance that running your hands through her hair does not work, like this particular night, Sydney knew what to do next. “I’ll tickle your back. I’ll tickle your back for a long time.” That, my friends, is all she wrote. But to see Sydney’s true manipulation skills in action, you simply need to keep reading.
As Holly helps Sydney onto the bed, I get up to get a drink of water. Sensing a golden opportunity, Sydney jumps onto my side of the bed, rolls over and says to Holly, “Tickle my back.” Hearing this, Holly says, “Do not pull the rug out from under me, you promised.” To which, as all good manipulators do when they have someone trapped, Sydney replies, “You would just be alone now anyway, with Daddy gone, so you tickle my back. I know you hate to be alone.”
As Holly tickles her back, I walk back into the room and see Sydney spread out on my side of the bed, asleep. Beaten, I take the couch which is 2 feet away and Sydney sleeps the night away knowing she has been victorious.
Two nights later, not wanting to fall for the same trick, Holly will not let Sydney get up on the bed. Sydney promptly tells Holly that she is never going to play with her hair again and goes out of the room and slams the door.
Five minutes later, Sydney comes back into the room, tells Holly that she is not happy with the last encounter and asked her to tell her, one more time, that she can not sleep on her bed. Holly obliges, and without a moment’s hesitation, Sydney stands up and says, "Holly (not mom), I’m out of here. Talk to the hand.”
I was laughing so hard I asked her to come back in and before we knew it, Sydney was up in the middle of the bed, with both Holly and I tickling her.
It is not often that the master meets a new master, but the baton is ready to be passed. The master has now become the student and the student is now out to get each and everyone of you. You’ve been warned. But don’t worry, believe me, you won’t see it coming.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
A gift for the holidays...
In one of Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy bits he describes being tested for hearing in elementary school and about his desire to be the best at everything. He said that after testing him, “He wanted the doctor to pronounce that he had super hearing, capable of eliminating misery for all of mankind.”
Similarly, I have that same desire, but mine does not revolve around hearing, but is based on real and monumental accomplishments that, by being better and finding success, will ultimately assist society as a whole to achieve happiness and fulfillment that has been unattainable.
You see, my goal is simple. I want to be the fastest ever at those new self-service check out stands in all of the grocery stores. You have seen the self-service checkout line, the ones that are filled with people who have no idea how to work them. These machines are so baffling that people simply walk out of the store, after hours of trying to make it through the isle, leaving in a fit of frustration and despair.
To many people, these self-service checkout machines are like jail sentences without the opportunity for parole. They, like OJ, know that when they go in, there is no coming out, no matter what.
They are doing 7-10 years without any chance for a conjugal visit or a good job in the kitchen. I hear that those two things are really the only hope you have of making jail bearable.
As one of the fastest self-service checkout professionals in the world, I see the long lines and people fumbling with their groceries and my heart goes out to them. Not in an “I want to help you sort of way,” more like a “I'm sorry that you are going to lose to me (even though you don't even know that it's a competition)” sort of way.
I breeze through these lines. I scan, place my item into the bag (which is key, because the computer knows how much a product weighs and won’t let you go on until it senses the weight) and hit the payment key. I pass the coupon section, use the pay pad and I am done. 10 seconds flat. A new world record.
In fact, I am so good at this that I know all of the grocery chains are secretly watching me; trying to persuade me to come in and teach their check-out team the secrets of my success. In my mind, I understand that these stores are in the midst of a disorganized chaos so severe that my mere presence would increase the stores' operating income.
Yes, I know I have a gift, but unlike Superman, Batman, Doctors and hairstylists, I rarely use my gift for good and almost always use it for my own selfish rewards. But what are you really going to do; I am a unique specimen with a superhuman talent. I’m bound to be a Diva.
Similarly, I have that same desire, but mine does not revolve around hearing, but is based on real and monumental accomplishments that, by being better and finding success, will ultimately assist society as a whole to achieve happiness and fulfillment that has been unattainable.
You see, my goal is simple. I want to be the fastest ever at those new self-service check out stands in all of the grocery stores. You have seen the self-service checkout line, the ones that are filled with people who have no idea how to work them. These machines are so baffling that people simply walk out of the store, after hours of trying to make it through the isle, leaving in a fit of frustration and despair.
To many people, these self-service checkout machines are like jail sentences without the opportunity for parole. They, like OJ, know that when they go in, there is no coming out, no matter what.
They are doing 7-10 years without any chance for a conjugal visit or a good job in the kitchen. I hear that those two things are really the only hope you have of making jail bearable.
As one of the fastest self-service checkout professionals in the world, I see the long lines and people fumbling with their groceries and my heart goes out to them. Not in an “I want to help you sort of way,” more like a “I'm sorry that you are going to lose to me (even though you don't even know that it's a competition)” sort of way.
I breeze through these lines. I scan, place my item into the bag (which is key, because the computer knows how much a product weighs and won’t let you go on until it senses the weight) and hit the payment key. I pass the coupon section, use the pay pad and I am done. 10 seconds flat. A new world record.
In fact, I am so good at this that I know all of the grocery chains are secretly watching me; trying to persuade me to come in and teach their check-out team the secrets of my success. In my mind, I understand that these stores are in the midst of a disorganized chaos so severe that my mere presence would increase the stores' operating income.
Yes, I know I have a gift, but unlike Superman, Batman, Doctors and hairstylists, I rarely use my gift for good and almost always use it for my own selfish rewards. But what are you really going to do; I am a unique specimen with a superhuman talent. I’m bound to be a Diva.
Merry Christmas...
If you are not related to me, you may consider me an individual who lives in Las Vegas and is more concerned about his hair and skin care products than working the land or running a farm. And while that is 99 percent true, you probably don’t know that:
· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime
The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.
However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.
Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.
My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.
But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.
After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.
However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.
But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.
As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.
At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.
My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.
I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.
I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.
· I can castrate a pig
· I can milk a cow
· I can break a horse
· I’ve raised hundreds of chickens and turkeys over my lifetime
The truth is that even though I grew up a city kid, I come from Grade A stock, and I spent lots of time on the farm behind our house. In fact, I spent so much time that I became a closeted farmer, who had the skills and the moxie needed to run a full-time ranch. Well, maybe. It was a long time ago and I do love how moisturized my hands are at this point in my life.
However, in the summer of 1983, my brothers and I were invited to participate in the annual Midway Rodeo. Midway is a small town where my grandmother lived and is located about 15 minutes above Park City, Utah. This rodeo was created as a showcase for the town’s children and its future rodeo stars. It was a HUGE deal to them and their aspiring ranchers.
Being a rodeo for kids, the events included bull riding, goat milking, catching a greased pig and climbing a greased poll. The first contest was simple: Grab your kid, put him on a bull and see if he can hold on.
My dad, seeing an opportunity for me to shine, grabbed me, placed me on the bull and watched me ride that thing for at least 4 sec. Anyone who knows anything about bull riding understands that 4 seconds is halfway to 8 seconds and 8 seconds on a bull will make you money. Plus, 4 seconds was about 3.5 seconds longer than anyone else had stayed on.
But if you think I was going to get a pat on the back from the locals, you were wrong indeed. To say the local kids were overconfident is an understatement. They had on their Wrangler jeans; cowboy hats and boots. I was wearing Guess jeans, Nikes and a nice button-up Latigra polo. I think it was maroon; I know it looked smashing.
After the bull riding, we were entered into the goat milking contest. This contest was even easier; whoever filled a bottle up first won. Compared to milking a cow, milking a goat was EASY! My brothers and I had no problems filling that cup. We filled that cups in seconds. I had the goat filling so good and loose that I had to leave right after the event to avoid a marriage proposal.
However, as we went to collect our blue ribbon and after a moment of conferring with the judges, my brothers and I were ruled ineligible. The judges said something about being from the city and not being from Midway and that they feared my supple hands and my ability to stimulate a goat. Ahhhh, maybe that could have been worded differently.
But our success in milking goats should not have been a surprise. Back at home, we used to milk a cow everyday or at least help. Anyone who has ever milked a cow understands that if you don’t hold onto the tail, the cow will naturally sway back and forth and before long the tail will end up hitting you in the face. If you have ever inspected a cow’s tail, the last thing you want is for that tail to hit you in the face. Therefore, my dad employed my brother, Andy, to hold the tail and eliminate this nuisance.
As the old saying goes, don’t mess with a bull, if you don’t want the horns. And in Andy’s case, this literally translated into: Don’t hold a cow’s tail, if you don’t want pile of crap on your head. I can still see the surprise and anguish from Andy as the “stuff” landed on him.
At the time, he was just tall enough to hold the tail and just short enough to be standing right under the poop shoot. After the “incident” he was covered. His hair was green, his clothes were green, even his shoes were green. He was afraid to cry. He knew that if he opened him mouth some would eventually work its way in. He just stood there, not really knowing what to do.
My dad, patiently snickering to himself, while my brother and I roared with laughter, stood up and took my stinky brother home to my mother who hosed him off outside. Every time we are about to see Andy, I tell and re-tell this story to my kids who are fascinated by its appeal. Even they tease him about the situation.
I’m not sure which story I like more. On one hand, you have me riding a bull and using my hands to tantalize a goat (ouch, I have GOT to re-phase that) on the other hand, you have my brother covered in, ahhh, well, you get the picture.
I do know one thing; however, I have got to stop talking about goats.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Who knew...?
PS – Tom Cruise can’t read. Sad, I know. He has all of those super-human-spy powers; can dance in his underwear, but he can’t read. As he was promoting his new film, which is suppose to suck, on the Late Night with David Letterman Show Monday, someone got the bright idea to have Tom Cruise read the Top 10 list.
I love the Top 10 list more than I love anything on TV. It has provided me with thousands of enjoyable moments throughout my life. If I miss the lists on TV, I read them on the Internet. Secretly, I have always had a deep desire to write them and read them on the show. So, you may say, I have always wanted to do what Tom was doing, which may account for my enjoyment in his failure.
Tom is trying desperately to restore his image after spending a year or so destroying it by picking on all kinds of people, including Matt Lauer. This new Tom has been happy, friendly and really up for almost everything, including reading.
However, reading was not up for him. I am sure his people looked on in shock as they realized that Tom can't read. Now don't get me wrong, he can read enough to get him through the day. He did a fairly good job on most of the list, but as he got to the word Heimlich, he paused, looked at Dave and pointed to the word, as if this was some new invention that was brand new to him and all those within the sound of his voice.
Dave, being the humanitarian that he is, made Tom wait for about 9 seconds, which seemed like an eternity on TV, before throwing him a lifeline and saying to him, “The word is Heimlich, Tom. Heimlich."
Tom, being blissfully unaware that this word existed before tonight's show, went on his merry way and continued to stumble over the remainder of the list.
So, although you may never have the opportunity to jump on Oprah’s couch and proclaim your love for your spouse, you can take great pride in knowing that as you read your child a bedtime story, somewhere Tom Cruise is wishing he were more like you.
You can watch the clip below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJOzDd0bglo
I love the Top 10 list more than I love anything on TV. It has provided me with thousands of enjoyable moments throughout my life. If I miss the lists on TV, I read them on the Internet. Secretly, I have always had a deep desire to write them and read them on the show. So, you may say, I have always wanted to do what Tom was doing, which may account for my enjoyment in his failure.
Tom is trying desperately to restore his image after spending a year or so destroying it by picking on all kinds of people, including Matt Lauer. This new Tom has been happy, friendly and really up for almost everything, including reading.
However, reading was not up for him. I am sure his people looked on in shock as they realized that Tom can't read. Now don't get me wrong, he can read enough to get him through the day. He did a fairly good job on most of the list, but as he got to the word Heimlich, he paused, looked at Dave and pointed to the word, as if this was some new invention that was brand new to him and all those within the sound of his voice.
Dave, being the humanitarian that he is, made Tom wait for about 9 seconds, which seemed like an eternity on TV, before throwing him a lifeline and saying to him, “The word is Heimlich, Tom. Heimlich."
Tom, being blissfully unaware that this word existed before tonight's show, went on his merry way and continued to stumble over the remainder of the list.
So, although you may never have the opportunity to jump on Oprah’s couch and proclaim your love for your spouse, you can take great pride in knowing that as you read your child a bedtime story, somewhere Tom Cruise is wishing he were more like you.
You can watch the clip below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJOzDd0bglo
You never know...So check!
Does life emulate art or does art emulate life? This is an age old question, which never seems to be given the time and attention it needs to be answered.
To fully understand and ponder this question, let me take you back to the front room of my mother’s house. I am 14 or 16 or 18, it really does not matter for this story, but being someone who always tells the truth and meticulously ensures that every detail is correct, I want to be as factual as possible.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the front room of my mother’s house when I heard her scream out in agony or possibly disgust; I am still not sure which. Being a good son, unlike my two brothers, I rushed into the dining room to find my mother washing out her mouth in a vigorous fashion.
She explained to me that she was cleaning the table and thought someone had spilled lemonade, but was not sure, so she decided to taste it. "It," which is never a good way to end a sentence, turned out not to be lemonade, but was, in fact, a squirt of cat pee.
Yes, she of her own free will and choice had tasted cat pee. I can’t really remember what happened next, although it did include a fit of hysterical laughter on my part and some rolling around on the floor, which only made her more mad or upset.
You would think that simply smelling the pee would have been enough to deduce that this was not lemonade, but who am I to judge. In fact, I would be a horrible judge, as two of my lifelong goals are (1) never to ingest pee of any kind, especially that of a cat and (2) never to ingest fecal matter of any kind, but more on that to come.
Fast forward to my house. As a family, we are sitting down to watch Baby Mama, the Tina Fey flick about having kids. As the movie rolled on, we watched as Tina Fey’s movie sister walked up to her kid, grabbed his hand and said, “Is that chocolate or poopy, chocolate or poopy?” Then to see which it really was, she licked his arm and said, “ohhh, its chocolate.”
Tina Fey stood in shock and asked her sister, “What would you have done if that were poop?” No answer, was given, but I am sure each one of us could deduce the horror we would have felt if that had really been poop.
Some are more brave. My mom, for example, she had an answer. She tasted cat pee and spent two hours trying to get the taste out of her mouth. She was not afraid, she tasted that pee and lived to tell about it (I know, again with the "it").
Fast forward (or rewind at this point) to my house last night and I am sweeping up what looks to be chocolate. But with a vast array of knowledge on this subject, I asked Holly to come and inspect it closer. She bends down, touches it and, you guessed it, it’s #2. This #2 had just fallen out of Cali’s diaper. It was small and round and hard and looked just like a Hershey’s Kiss, but instead it was a Hershey Squirt.
“Were you going to taste that?” I screamed. “Were you?”
She never answered. I think somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was thinking about tasting it and was so horrified about that fact that she can’t admit it at this point.
There was a lot riding on her decision to taste or not to taste. On one hand, you may get a wonderful taste of chocolate, which is always pleasant; on the other hand, you may be labeled for life as the woman who voluntarily tasted poo.
That decision is really not worth the risk. She could have lost everything. That could have possibly been the last time we ever would have kissed….oh, who am I kidding, we don’t have five kids because we hate kissing.
At the end of it all, I am still unsure if it is art or life that is inspiring the other, but regardless, be careful out there, you never know where something has been before you eat it….(I know, "it" is a terrible way to end a story, but give me a break, it’s the Holidays.)
To fully understand and ponder this question, let me take you back to the front room of my mother’s house. I am 14 or 16 or 18, it really does not matter for this story, but being someone who always tells the truth and meticulously ensures that every detail is correct, I want to be as factual as possible.
As I was saying, I was sitting in the front room of my mother’s house when I heard her scream out in agony or possibly disgust; I am still not sure which. Being a good son, unlike my two brothers, I rushed into the dining room to find my mother washing out her mouth in a vigorous fashion.
She explained to me that she was cleaning the table and thought someone had spilled lemonade, but was not sure, so she decided to taste it. "It," which is never a good way to end a sentence, turned out not to be lemonade, but was, in fact, a squirt of cat pee.
Yes, she of her own free will and choice had tasted cat pee. I can’t really remember what happened next, although it did include a fit of hysterical laughter on my part and some rolling around on the floor, which only made her more mad or upset.
You would think that simply smelling the pee would have been enough to deduce that this was not lemonade, but who am I to judge. In fact, I would be a horrible judge, as two of my lifelong goals are (1) never to ingest pee of any kind, especially that of a cat and (2) never to ingest fecal matter of any kind, but more on that to come.
Fast forward to my house. As a family, we are sitting down to watch Baby Mama, the Tina Fey flick about having kids. As the movie rolled on, we watched as Tina Fey’s movie sister walked up to her kid, grabbed his hand and said, “Is that chocolate or poopy, chocolate or poopy?” Then to see which it really was, she licked his arm and said, “ohhh, its chocolate.”
Tina Fey stood in shock and asked her sister, “What would you have done if that were poop?” No answer, was given, but I am sure each one of us could deduce the horror we would have felt if that had really been poop.
Some are more brave. My mom, for example, she had an answer. She tasted cat pee and spent two hours trying to get the taste out of her mouth. She was not afraid, she tasted that pee and lived to tell about it (I know, again with the "it").
Fast forward (or rewind at this point) to my house last night and I am sweeping up what looks to be chocolate. But with a vast array of knowledge on this subject, I asked Holly to come and inspect it closer. She bends down, touches it and, you guessed it, it’s #2. This #2 had just fallen out of Cali’s diaper. It was small and round and hard and looked just like a Hershey’s Kiss, but instead it was a Hershey Squirt.
“Were you going to taste that?” I screamed. “Were you?”
She never answered. I think somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was thinking about tasting it and was so horrified about that fact that she can’t admit it at this point.
There was a lot riding on her decision to taste or not to taste. On one hand, you may get a wonderful taste of chocolate, which is always pleasant; on the other hand, you may be labeled for life as the woman who voluntarily tasted poo.
That decision is really not worth the risk. She could have lost everything. That could have possibly been the last time we ever would have kissed….oh, who am I kidding, we don’t have five kids because we hate kissing.
At the end of it all, I am still unsure if it is art or life that is inspiring the other, but regardless, be careful out there, you never know where something has been before you eat it….(I know, "it" is a terrible way to end a story, but give me a break, it’s the Holidays.)
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Cockadoodledo...
My run in with that crazy lady in the robe yesterday got me thinking. No, I did not start thinking about my own mortality. In fact, that did not even cross my mind. You know what else did not cross my mind, why I don’t own a robe. I’ve always thought robe people were only one step away from snapping and walking down the street in their robes. Now I know that’s a fact.
It’s clear to me that if you own a robe, there is a 95 percent chance that the cops are going to pick you up and bring you back to your house as you mumble to yourself incoherently. The only real question that remains is if you will or won’t have clothes on underneath. And that really is the only thing separating you from a misdemeanor or a felony.
What did cross my mind, however, was a memory I had about this one-eyed rooster. For those of you who are confused at this point, shame on you, read the story below and then come back to this one. Anyway, we were so proud of this one-eyed rooster and how tough it was that we challenged our friend down the street to a cock-fight.
This rooster had been terrorizing us, our friends and anyone who visited our house for months. We had built this rooster up in our minds and we were solely and firmly convinced that this was the badest, meanest, most despicable rooster in town. This brazen belief in our rooster led us to taunt our neighbor, who also lived on a farm, three houses down from us, about his cowardly roosters. The challenging started at school, during the last ten minutes and met a full boil as the bell sounded.
My brothers and I could not believe our luck as we bounded home. We ran in, found our dad and somehow convinced him to grab the rooster and high tail it down to our neighbor’s house for the cock-fight of the century.
Secretly, each and every one of us believed that we had been training this rooster to be even tougher than if it was left on its own. We had been getting it cardio by running from it as fast as we could; teaching it to dodge objects by throwing our basketball at it as hard as we could and helping it focus as we cried as loud as we could when it started after us. I mean, this thing would chase us every single day. Every day I spent some time and energy thinking about how I was going to avoid this rooster. It was terrifying.
As we walked to our neighbor’s house, my two brothers and I confidently followed on our father’s heels, our chests puffed out; our muscles flexed, our egos full. We were going to show the neighborhood that our rooster was the toughest, the strongest and the most aggressive rooster in the town. We all took pride in knowing that as our rooster displayed its aggressions, we would somehow be validated from running from it for such a long time.
As we reached our destination, the crowd swelled to like 10 or 11 people. Really, no one was around, but we felt like the entire world was watching. My dad reached down, put our rooster in a makeshift ring and started the fight. The anticipation was palpable.
But as my dad backed away, and the neighbor’s rooster approached, our mighty rooster, who carried our hearts and beliefs on its back, fled the scene and ran like a, well, chicken.
He did not make one peck, poke or motion toward our neighbor’s rooster. He simply tucked his head and ran as fast as he could, away from the fight and away from our dreams of neighborhood superiority.
My dad bent over, picked up our defeated champion and we headed back to our house, heads hung low; hopes dashed, faith crushed. What we thought was a tough bird had turned into a cowering failure.
As we reached our destination, my dad put the rooster on the ground and we turned to walk into our house. The walk, however, turned into a dead run as he started chasing and pecking us again. He scratched my brother, clawed my dad and pecked my foot. He was flying around like the terminator we all knew him to be.
The moral of the story? That rooster was one crazy bird. I mean, really, I never understood that thing.
It’s clear to me that if you own a robe, there is a 95 percent chance that the cops are going to pick you up and bring you back to your house as you mumble to yourself incoherently. The only real question that remains is if you will or won’t have clothes on underneath. And that really is the only thing separating you from a misdemeanor or a felony.
What did cross my mind, however, was a memory I had about this one-eyed rooster. For those of you who are confused at this point, shame on you, read the story below and then come back to this one. Anyway, we were so proud of this one-eyed rooster and how tough it was that we challenged our friend down the street to a cock-fight.
This rooster had been terrorizing us, our friends and anyone who visited our house for months. We had built this rooster up in our minds and we were solely and firmly convinced that this was the badest, meanest, most despicable rooster in town. This brazen belief in our rooster led us to taunt our neighbor, who also lived on a farm, three houses down from us, about his cowardly roosters. The challenging started at school, during the last ten minutes and met a full boil as the bell sounded.
My brothers and I could not believe our luck as we bounded home. We ran in, found our dad and somehow convinced him to grab the rooster and high tail it down to our neighbor’s house for the cock-fight of the century.
Secretly, each and every one of us believed that we had been training this rooster to be even tougher than if it was left on its own. We had been getting it cardio by running from it as fast as we could; teaching it to dodge objects by throwing our basketball at it as hard as we could and helping it focus as we cried as loud as we could when it started after us. I mean, this thing would chase us every single day. Every day I spent some time and energy thinking about how I was going to avoid this rooster. It was terrifying.
As we walked to our neighbor’s house, my two brothers and I confidently followed on our father’s heels, our chests puffed out; our muscles flexed, our egos full. We were going to show the neighborhood that our rooster was the toughest, the strongest and the most aggressive rooster in the town. We all took pride in knowing that as our rooster displayed its aggressions, we would somehow be validated from running from it for such a long time.
As we reached our destination, the crowd swelled to like 10 or 11 people. Really, no one was around, but we felt like the entire world was watching. My dad reached down, put our rooster in a makeshift ring and started the fight. The anticipation was palpable.
But as my dad backed away, and the neighbor’s rooster approached, our mighty rooster, who carried our hearts and beliefs on its back, fled the scene and ran like a, well, chicken.
He did not make one peck, poke or motion toward our neighbor’s rooster. He simply tucked his head and ran as fast as he could, away from the fight and away from our dreams of neighborhood superiority.
My dad bent over, picked up our defeated champion and we headed back to our house, heads hung low; hopes dashed, faith crushed. What we thought was a tough bird had turned into a cowering failure.
As we reached our destination, my dad put the rooster on the ground and we turned to walk into our house. The walk, however, turned into a dead run as he started chasing and pecking us again. He scratched my brother, clawed my dad and pecked my foot. He was flying around like the terminator we all knew him to be.
The moral of the story? That rooster was one crazy bird. I mean, really, I never understood that thing.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Mother Nature...
Holly and I like to jog. Sometimes, like this morning, we are even lucky enough to jog together. We love to watch the sunrise, the fog dissipate over the mountains and commune with nature before we start another hectic day apart. Sometimes, however infrequent, we are even more blessed and we're allowed to see Mother Nature in Her true element. Deer, horses, even the occasional cow all seem majestic in the morning light and mark the path we traverse.
But, as unexpected as it was, Mother Nature really blessed us this morning as we silently watched a woman in her mid-40s walk down the street in a robe, wearing bunny slippers, yelling at the top of her lungs for her cat.
As she shuffled past us, she stopped us in mid-stride and yelled directly into my face, “Have you seen my cat?” She was literally five feet from us and yelling as if we were 50 yards apart.
“Your cat?” I responded, in a somewhat hushed tone. “YES, my cat! I’m looking for my cat. She is white and about 4 feet tall.”
“Four feet tall?” I asked. “Your cat is four feet tall, like this tall?” Placing my arm four feet off the ground for effect.
“YES,” her octave climbing with each response. “It’s a big cat. A really big cat. She is a mountain cat, and I have to find her. I thought she was running next to the two of you, and then I realized she wasn’t.”
“Oooookkkkkk,” I said. “We’ll be on the look out for your cat,” as Holly and I ran faster and faster away from her and her absent “pet.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I do not want to begrudge anyone from their morning drugs or even their midnight drugs or whatever this woman was on or not on. She looked nice, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something was not right.
At least I hope she was high, crazy or drunk. If not, that is a big cat and that cat could do some damage.
Cats hate me. Trust me. I know a thing or two about them. When I was little, my sister Missy wanted a cat. The cat then routinely jumped up on our counter and licked our butter. It always hissed at me and I am sure wanted to secretly scratch out my eyes in the middle of the night. To this day, I still keep my butter in the fridge.
But cats are nothing compared to one-eyed roosters. We had one of those as well. It would chase you around until it clawed you or you hid in its blind spot. I mean, it only had one eye, so it was not too hard to avoid, but it took every chance it could to stab you with its claws.
My dad killed the rooster one day. It tried to peck him one too many times and as he went to kick it, his shoe flew off his foot and went into an irrigation ditch filled with water. He was so mad that he took his other foot, the one that still rested inside a shoe, stepped on that rooster’s head, grabbed the talons and that was that. I had never been so proud of my dad in my life.
So take my word for it, if you see a four feet tall, white mountain cat be careful. It will most likely try to claw your eyes out. But on a positive note, I know the owner. She is the whacked out lady walking down the street at 6:00 a.m. in a robe, looking for a make believe cat.
She won’t be hard to find. I always thought people who did drugs were chasing the Dragon, now I know that it is really the cat they are after.
But, as unexpected as it was, Mother Nature really blessed us this morning as we silently watched a woman in her mid-40s walk down the street in a robe, wearing bunny slippers, yelling at the top of her lungs for her cat.
As she shuffled past us, she stopped us in mid-stride and yelled directly into my face, “Have you seen my cat?” She was literally five feet from us and yelling as if we were 50 yards apart.
“Your cat?” I responded, in a somewhat hushed tone. “YES, my cat! I’m looking for my cat. She is white and about 4 feet tall.”
“Four feet tall?” I asked. “Your cat is four feet tall, like this tall?” Placing my arm four feet off the ground for effect.
“YES,” her octave climbing with each response. “It’s a big cat. A really big cat. She is a mountain cat, and I have to find her. I thought she was running next to the two of you, and then I realized she wasn’t.”
“Oooookkkkkk,” I said. “We’ll be on the look out for your cat,” as Holly and I ran faster and faster away from her and her absent “pet.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I do not want to begrudge anyone from their morning drugs or even their midnight drugs or whatever this woman was on or not on. She looked nice, but somewhere in the recesses of her mind, something was not right.
At least I hope she was high, crazy or drunk. If not, that is a big cat and that cat could do some damage.
Cats hate me. Trust me. I know a thing or two about them. When I was little, my sister Missy wanted a cat. The cat then routinely jumped up on our counter and licked our butter. It always hissed at me and I am sure wanted to secretly scratch out my eyes in the middle of the night. To this day, I still keep my butter in the fridge.
But cats are nothing compared to one-eyed roosters. We had one of those as well. It would chase you around until it clawed you or you hid in its blind spot. I mean, it only had one eye, so it was not too hard to avoid, but it took every chance it could to stab you with its claws.
My dad killed the rooster one day. It tried to peck him one too many times and as he went to kick it, his shoe flew off his foot and went into an irrigation ditch filled with water. He was so mad that he took his other foot, the one that still rested inside a shoe, stepped on that rooster’s head, grabbed the talons and that was that. I had never been so proud of my dad in my life.
So take my word for it, if you see a four feet tall, white mountain cat be careful. It will most likely try to claw your eyes out. But on a positive note, I know the owner. She is the whacked out lady walking down the street at 6:00 a.m. in a robe, looking for a make believe cat.
She won’t be hard to find. I always thought people who did drugs were chasing the Dragon, now I know that it is really the cat they are after.
Friday, December 5, 2008
It is a romantic world...
I love romance. I love romantic things. In actuality, romance is simply the act of making someone feel appreciated. But if you think about it, romance should lose its license to continue as a word. People often say, “I’m not romantic. It’s just not my thing.” What they are truly saying is, “You know, I just really don’t care about anyone enough to think about them more than I think about myself.”
However, being that upfront and shallow is often hard for people to take, so we as a people created a word for those of us who care about others more than ourselves. For those, like me, who really care, we bare the title of hopeless romantics, which basically means, we care about everyone more than we care about ourselves, so, quick, take advantage of us while you can.
Even with our best intentions in tow, sometimes romance goes sideways, as was displayed by the following occurrence in Neskowin, Ore. I read this article in the USA Today this morning and found it hard to…ah, how do I put this, oh yes, believe.
But maybe that’s just me. I'm cynical. But come on, does this not all seem a little fishy (pun intended), a little too unbelievable. I’ll let you be the judge. You'll see excerpts from the story in bold and my pondering questions (read: cynicism) in italics.
From the story, it seems that a 45 year old man had set out to propose to his “girlfriend” on the beach. Many would say that this is the height of romance, a true romantic gesture. I agree. In fact I proposed to Holly at the beach, but somehow we were able to make it out alive. In Neskowin, they are not so lucky.
NESKOWIN, Ore. (AP) — A romantic marriage proposal on the Oregon coast turned deadly for the bride-to-be when a wave swept her out to sea.
Scott Napper planned to pop the question. That question was simple, do you know how to swim, because if you do, this whole "thing" is going to be a lot more difficult.
He was going to propose to Leafil Alforque, 22, at a spot near Neskowin Beach that got its name from couples ready to marry. When you read propose, insert he was going to drowned her. And also read that it is never odd or strange that a 45 year old man would finally find love over the Internet, with a 22 year old girl from the Philippines. Those types of relationships almost always end well and are never consummated with a credit card and a secure website.
He planned to propose and give her the ring he carried in his pocket. However, she was only 4-foot-11 and 93 pounds, she had been caught by the receding waters and was pulled out to sea and never heard from again. When they say pulled out to sea, read pushed out to sea. It is almost the exact same thing, but one is a felony.
The 45-year-old Silverton man tore off his jacket to get rid of any extra weight, and when he looked up again she was gone. Oh sure. Yeah, I am sure that half-pound jacket was going to cause you all kinds of trouble. Make sure you get your car keys out of your pocket as well. And for Heaven’s sake, DON’T try to swim with your wallet in you back pocket. You could drown. Oh, wait…
"That's the last I saw of her," he said Wednesday, breaking into tears. Good, good. Cry. Yeah, that makes it all the more believable.
Emergency personnel called by someone on the beach arrived within minutes. Yes, somehow these people were able to stay out of the water and simultaneously operate their phones.
His own phone no longer worked after being exposed to the water. Gasp….What a shocker. I’m sure he dropped his phone in the toilet one or two times before heading to the beach to ensure that it would not have reception after the “event.” I mean, how embarrassing would it be to actually have the power to make a call….that could have messed up the entire “project.”
"I yelled for her," he said. He couldn't do more than yell? Note to anyone reading this, if I am dying, please don’t just yell at me. I mean, I’m dying here, don’t stress me out. I have a lot on my plate at the moment. If you can’t fish me out of the ocean, at least let me watch my life flash before my eyes in peace. I mean, can’t a guy get a moment of silence around here.
Napper and Alforque had been dating since they met on the Internet in 2005. This whole I am going to kill you after I meet you on the Internet thing is so played out. Can’t people find new ways to kill their victims? This is so predictable.
Alforque arrived in Oregon on a visa from the Philippines just three days before the fateful trip to the coast. Three days? You couldn't hack more than three days. I mean, at least take her out and show her the sites before you push her into the ocean. What, she does not deserve to go to Disneyland? She shouldn't enjoy the extreme glee that comes from shopping at an outlet mall while drinking an Orange Julius? At least take her around before you push her under.
Police don't suspect foul play. Police don’t suspect foul play? On the contrary, they are 100 percent sure he pushed her into the ocean and will arrest him soon.
Other things I really don’t believe:
Someday Santa will show up and write me a big, fat check to cover my Christmas expenses for the last 11 years.
Sarah Palin pleaded with the GOP to conserve funds and not foolishly spend the money on her; her family and her hair.
The economy is terrific.
One thing I do believe:
It is losers like this that give us romantics a bad name...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Stop With All The Squeezing Already...
Is it just me or is it really odd how we pick out the type of fruit we intend to purchase and eventually eat? What other foods do we pick-up, touch, bump, rub and then put back if it does not meet our needs.If you think about it, in many religions we don’t even let people who are getting married get as friendly as people do with the fruit they are thinking about buying.
Worse, when the fruit does not meet the requirements of the shopper, we don’t mandate that this fruit be purchased. We simply allow the individual to put the fruit back on top of the pile and walk away without thought or regard for the next person who actually buys the discarded item.
People handle products all day long, but those products come in a wrapper. Like gum. Can you imagine buying a piece of gum, which has been eaten and deemed unworthy for purchase and discarded for someone else? Or bread, butter, ice cream, ranch dressing. We don’t let people double dip at parties, but eating fruit from the store is fine. Grapes, strawberries, blueberries, they are all fair game.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not pointing the finger at anyone. I am no angel when I'm buying fruit. In fact, I'm the worst. Before I leave that isle, I almost feel ashamed for not marrying the apples I fondled. I love crisp apples, but can’t stand it if they are soggy, so I will test 20 or more before I find the perfect one.
The anonymity of the fruit buying experience is the key to our bad behavior. We do lots of things alone, that we would never share and, worse yet, never admit if we were in a group. We all know that if the person who had to buy the apple you were testing for firmness was standing in back of you, watching you, you would be less likely to grope, squash or taste it before passing it to him to take it home and make it into fruit salad.
So, is it just me?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
If you dare...
My dad loves to tell a story about me and my breakfast choices. He will say, in a very entertaining fashion, “Matt used to love to eat pancake sandwiches, then we send him off to Micronesia and he comes back and all he’ll eat is a salad. A SALAD! No one respects a salad eater,” he bellows at the top of his lungs, as the confused waitress sends me a shameful glace, secretly acknowledging that my father is right and I should scrap the salad and make my dad proud.As a side note, I think he stole the disrespect for salad eaters from Seinfeld, but I digress.
And while my dad is correct, I used to love to eat pancake sandwiches (two eggs over easy for the eyes; bacon for the mouth, hash browns for the nose, all stuffed on three huge pancakes, for the face), I don’t always get a salad. Sometimes it is a bowl of peaches, which makes him even more perplexed.
By the way, if you think I can tell a good story, you should listen to my dad. The apple, as they say, does not fall far from the tree. In fact, it is as if someone planted the apple in my brain. We are that closely related.
I love to sit next to him and hear him tell me stories. It is quite possibly the most entertaining thing I ever get to do. He, like me, never lets the facts or what really happened, get in the way of a good story. Which is essential to a good story.
However, this post is not about stories, but it is about things we ate when we were young, but somehow find the ability to refrain from currently. Somewhere in our make-up, we see the need to evolve, to eat something that is less likely to kill us and more likely to prolong our lives.
In that regard, my dad is correct. I am much more likely to eat a salad than a 3,500 calorie laden pancake sandwich, which may or may not be the second most delicious thing I have ever eaten.
The most delicious thing, and this is where it gets interesting, is listed below. My mother, being a saint, and putting up with three boys all growing up together, used to make Raisin Bars for us each Sunday night. We loved these bars and ate them by the pan, not the slice. She recently found the recipe, which she may have simply been hiding to benefit our health, and sent it to me.
Being a rigid and somewhat demented individual who may or may not have a slight inability to not engage in excess, I have not baked these yet. I’m sure we could all imagine what would happen if I did. And we should all agree that it would not, in every aspect of the word, be pretty.
But, you; you on the other hand, you have self control. You can look at a pan full of delicious and gooey deliciousness (yes that second deliciousness was on purpose) and partake without your spouse catching you excessively eating the entire pan and then licking the frosting off of it for good measure.
You are different. You, I trust. So, while I am doing yoga, please, make the recipe below and let me know how much you LOVE it. Somehow, knowing that you ate it, makes me feel like I ate it.
See, I told you I had a problem with excess.
RAISIN BARS
2 CUPS RAISINS
2 CUPS WATER
¾ C. SHORTENING
1 CUP SUGAR
1 CUP BROWN SUGAR
2 EGGS, BEATEN
½ t. SALT
1 t. SODA
1 t. BAKING POWDER
1 T. VANILLA
4 CUPS FLOUR
BOIL RAISINS AND WATER UNTIL 1 CUP LIQUID REMAINS.WHILE HOT ADD SHORTENING. SET ASIDE COMBINE SUGAR, EGGS AND VANILLA.SIFT DRY INGRED. ADD LIQUID AND DRY ALTERNATELY. GREASE COOKIE SHEET. SPREAD OUT ON LARGE COOKIE SHEET. BAKE 20-25 MIN. AT 375 DEGREES.COOL SLIGHTLY. WHILE WARM SPREAD WITH ICING AND CUT.
ICING
¼ CUP MARGARINE
1/3 CUP EVAPORATED MILK
1 t. VANILLA
2 CUPS POWDERED SUGAR.
MIX TOGETHER AND FROST RAISIN BARS.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
If I were divorcing Madonna…
I usually do not care about divorcing celebrities, but I had to laugh out loud when I read a list of demands that Madonna had her people send over to Guy Ritchie, her soon to be ex-husband, in preparation for a visit with his two boys.The following is a partial list of the 15 or so things that the pop diva mandated during their visit to spend time with their father:
· Under no circumstances should they read newspapers, magazines or watch TV or DVDs.
· They must adhere to a macrobiotic, vegetarian organic diet with no processed or refined foods.
· They should wear the clothes that Madonna sent with them on the flight and at no times should anything be purchased for them that is not 100 percent man-made by Burmese Monks.
· At bedtime, Guy should read the children the English Rose books Madonna wrote and nothing else that is not written by her.
· The boys are not to spend large amounts of time with Guy’s parents.
· Their hands should be regularly cleaned with disinfectant spray at all times.
While I am not a fan of Guy’s, I do know what I would do if I received a list like the following:
The first thing on my list would be a visit to the video store, where I would let my children pick out as many DVDs as they desired. Then, I would rush right over to a pizza restaurant and we would stuff ourselves until me, or one of the boys threw up. Then, before I did anything else, I would take them to a toy store and let them pick out anything and everything they wanted, including a number of gifts for my parents, which would be the next stop on our agenda.
After spending copious amounts of time with my parents, we would go home, lock ourselves in our home and watch TV and play video games for 24 hours, without taking one break to stop and wash their hands. Then, I would read them literally thousands and thousands of books, ensuring that not one of them was written by that pop princess.
After feasting on 24 hours of TV, I would take them out to the country and we would play soccer, rugby, golf and Frisbee until they were exhausted at which point we would head back to my parent’s house for some pie with whipped cream.
Before I returned the children to Madonna, I would take thousands of snap shots of my boys and their smiling faces and compile them all in a photo album for her to peruse. I would also make an additional album for her people who sent me the list, because I would hate for them to feel left out in any manner.
Then, without a prenup in place (because Madonna did not do a prenup with Guy) I would take half of her fortune or somewhere between $250 and $275 million and spend the rest of my life raising my kids how I wanted to raise them.
But that’s just me.
Only you can prevent social indignity...
Lately, as I am out to dinner or at other social events, I have been noticing a growing number of etiquette offenses that are overtly disrespectful to others.Being the kind and compassionate person that I am, I have decided to bare the burden of eliminating these gaffes from our social landscape. And while you may mock my pain, I remind you, sharply, that without social graces, we will eventually lose our souls (OK, not our souls, but maybe we will not dress as nice).
Today, without fear of consequence or retribution, I simply ask why people think it is proper to sit in front of their guests or dates and text others while they are in the middle of a conversation?
Is it not obvious that this course of action is completely offensive? Can’t these texting offenders see that this individual who is a mere eight feet from their face is giving them their full time and attention?
Don’t get me wrong, I am an avid texter. I know the thrill of receiving a text and the excitement of responding. But this has gone too far. It has become an epidemic. How can we as a people sit back and enjoy our texting, when the person in front of us is sitting there, staring into space.
In all actuality, texting someone who is not with you is a ruse. This individual does not care about you at all. They did not drive across town to be with you. No sir. They are lazily sitting in their office or at home, texting you, and dare I say hundreds of others, looking for something to release the boredom from their uninspiring lives.
In proper context, the person in front of you is the person who truly cares about you. They are committed; they don’t have anywhere else to go. They care about you.
However, not one to be a scrooge in these types of instances I have created ten loopholes, where if these circumstances arise, you may feel free to engage in as much texting discourse as needed.
But remember, with knowledge comes power. Do NOT try to fake any of the following occurrences to satisfy your texting fix, as it will only come back to haunt you when you are discovered to have been unfaithful to your guest:
1. Your house is on fire. Note: This can not be a kitchen fire or a grease fire. Your entire house has to be engulfed in a full five-alarm fire. People must be evacuated and your kids must be in the process of being accounted for.
2. Your car has been repossessed, and you are currently up on all of your payments. If you are not up on all the payments, sit and suffer in a texting silence.
3. Your mother, who is over the age of 60, has just been told that she is pregnant. Your father was not involved.
4. You won the lottery or hit a hard eight hoppin’ playing craps in any Las Vegas casino.
5. You have to get an arm or leg amputated tomorrow. If this procedure will occur in a week or later, please text about it after your acquaintance has returned to his/her home.
6. Your kid or kids have just been sent to jail.
7. You just saw a naked and somewhat questionable photo of yourself in Playboy, which looks like it was taken while you were trying on new clothes at the Gap or Banana Republic. If the photo was taken while you were changing at Old Navy, then you lose all opportunity to text as you have to expect that this will occur in that store.
8. The University of Utah goes undefeated for the entire season and ends up in the BCS championship game.
9. Whenever Justin Brown is in town.
10. You see the perfect new suit coat on sale.
If your situation does not fall into one of these categories, you must not text. If you refuse to obey these rules, you are in grave danger of seeing your phone or texting device thrown out the window of a fast moving car; tossed in the garbage at a nice restaurant or dropped in the pool, ocean or any body of water.
Good night and may tomorrow bring about a new level of social awareness in you and throughout your family.
Class of 91...
This is the newest addition to my wardrobe. I did not even know that I could buy something like this, and now I am the proud owner of the coolest shirt in Las Vegas. Which reminds me that I used to beg my mom to buy me at least five new shirts every year before school started so that I would not have to repeat any during the week. Once I had five, I would always try to get eight of nine, but that rarely happened.By the way, I am not counting the polo shirts that she made me wear in the five, as they were so not cool at the time, but she thought they made me look distinguished.
I posted the link below, in case anyone else wants to look as cool as me and buy themselves or thier loved ones a piece of Cyprus High School.
http://www.alumniclass.com/cyprushighut/index.php
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
W, M, L, L, L, L...
My wife is an excellent teacher, motivator and mother. I have four young girls and I hope every one of them turn out to be just like her. I love it when I come home from work and find Holly teaching them some valuable lesson that she has learned from her life.
For example, I walked in the door the other day and saw my wife dancing furiously in front of London and Brooklyn. She was alternating between shaking her face in their faces and then turning and shaking her butt in their faces. And as if that was not impressive enough, during her dancing, she kept throwing out what looked to me like gang signs.
I know I should have asked what was going on, but it was too entertaining not to just stop and stare. In actuality, I found out later that the gang signs were not gang signs at all, but were simply her hands making the shapes of Ws, Ls and Ms, which stood for whatever, major loser, loser, loser.
In the midst of this critical and timely instruction, I was able to quickly piece together that my daughter had been treated unfairly at school and had been called a loser, loser that day at recess.
A true saint, Holly quickly told my daughter that this action said more about the other person’s lack of self esteem than it said about my daughter and re-counted a story when she was also attacked by a woman who was insecure
Although similar, Holly’s trouble began not in elementary school, but at the piano bar two weeks earlier when a woman who was being pushed to the back of the room said that Holly may or may not have a stain on her pants and told her she should go to the bathroom and check it out.
Being a man, I was unaccustomed to this type of female warfare, but was quickly informed that this is standard course for cat fights and that women will always result to such levels in a heated discussion.
Holly, knowing that she had no such stain of her pants, thanked the woman and then proceeded to dance in front of her in a rapid motion that made me feel like I was watching Bring It On 4, the Piano Bar Edition. She elegantly shook her face in the girls face and then turned and shook her butt in the girl’s face, just as she was doing to Brooklyn and London on this particular occasion.
Upon hearing this story, Brooklyn immediately felt better and was resolved to deal with her bully the next day at school, not through violence, but through the art and expression of dance.
Whenever possible, Holly and I have vowed to provide our children with opportunities to excel in the arts. We believe that it shows a level of class and sophistication that can sometimes be lacking in today’s environment.
Holly told Brooklyn that if this girl ever called her a loser again, she should simply get in her face and dance, while making the signs of W, M, L, L, L, L. Holly felt that throwing in the two extra L’s would provide the ammunition Brooklyn needed to really make an impression that she was not to be messed with again.
And while the jury is still out on Brooklyn’s retaliation tactics, there was proof that no good deed goes unpunished last night when Sydney came to me in tears, saying, “Brooklyn and London did the butt, butt, shake, shake thing to me and knocked me down.”
I, and this is really the point of the entire story, was forced to call a family meeting and create a hard and fast rule that we will only condone the use of butt, butt, shake, shake on individuals who live outside of our home and, furthermore, we would all agree to save it for the most grave situations.
Each of my children then took an oath to keep the butt shaking to a minimum and each agreed to only use it outside of the four walls of our home, which only serves to remind me of what an excellent father I am and further prove that although we all have butts, they should not always be shook.
For example, I walked in the door the other day and saw my wife dancing furiously in front of London and Brooklyn. She was alternating between shaking her face in their faces and then turning and shaking her butt in their faces. And as if that was not impressive enough, during her dancing, she kept throwing out what looked to me like gang signs.
I know I should have asked what was going on, but it was too entertaining not to just stop and stare. In actuality, I found out later that the gang signs were not gang signs at all, but were simply her hands making the shapes of Ws, Ls and Ms, which stood for whatever, major loser, loser, loser.
In the midst of this critical and timely instruction, I was able to quickly piece together that my daughter had been treated unfairly at school and had been called a loser, loser that day at recess.
A true saint, Holly quickly told my daughter that this action said more about the other person’s lack of self esteem than it said about my daughter and re-counted a story when she was also attacked by a woman who was insecure
Although similar, Holly’s trouble began not in elementary school, but at the piano bar two weeks earlier when a woman who was being pushed to the back of the room said that Holly may or may not have a stain on her pants and told her she should go to the bathroom and check it out.
Being a man, I was unaccustomed to this type of female warfare, but was quickly informed that this is standard course for cat fights and that women will always result to such levels in a heated discussion.
Holly, knowing that she had no such stain of her pants, thanked the woman and then proceeded to dance in front of her in a rapid motion that made me feel like I was watching Bring It On 4, the Piano Bar Edition. She elegantly shook her face in the girls face and then turned and shook her butt in the girl’s face, just as she was doing to Brooklyn and London on this particular occasion.
Upon hearing this story, Brooklyn immediately felt better and was resolved to deal with her bully the next day at school, not through violence, but through the art and expression of dance.
Whenever possible, Holly and I have vowed to provide our children with opportunities to excel in the arts. We believe that it shows a level of class and sophistication that can sometimes be lacking in today’s environment.
Holly told Brooklyn that if this girl ever called her a loser again, she should simply get in her face and dance, while making the signs of W, M, L, L, L, L. Holly felt that throwing in the two extra L’s would provide the ammunition Brooklyn needed to really make an impression that she was not to be messed with again.
And while the jury is still out on Brooklyn’s retaliation tactics, there was proof that no good deed goes unpunished last night when Sydney came to me in tears, saying, “Brooklyn and London did the butt, butt, shake, shake thing to me and knocked me down.”
I, and this is really the point of the entire story, was forced to call a family meeting and create a hard and fast rule that we will only condone the use of butt, butt, shake, shake on individuals who live outside of our home and, furthermore, we would all agree to save it for the most grave situations.
Each of my children then took an oath to keep the butt shaking to a minimum and each agreed to only use it outside of the four walls of our home, which only serves to remind me of what an excellent father I am and further prove that although we all have butts, they should not always be shook.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
How do you feel about???
I love to comment on social norms. Pet peeves. Little things that would normally have little consequence in the world, but can be debated freely without the fear of offending your colleague or loved one.I believe that this great desire to debate the inconsequential is a direct result from 10 years of watching episodes and reruns of Seinfeld. They were the kings of the inconsequential debate. And although they were debating unimportant elements, their passions were profound.
Which leads me to a new section on my blog that I have entitled, How Do You Feel About??? In this section, I will frequently pose a question and ask for your response, feedback and discussion. And while you may find these matters of little importance, its much more fun than determining why the GOP spent $150,000 outfitting Palin.
In regards to Palin, I believe it spent too little. She needs more Botox and some lip waxing and maybe a lift. Listen, put my money to good use, if we have to look at her, make her better looking. It is too late to save McCain’s appearance, but there is hope for Palin.
So, without further hesitations, let’s get to today’s question, which I took from the Yahoo! website:
We've all seen it before. The couples who can't stop kissing or cuddling each other while you're trying to eat peacefully or patiently waiting for your table. The ones who are so in love and/or inebriated that they lose sense of their surroundings and behave as though they think they're alone. What do you think of restaurant display of affection? Should we be able to enjoy a little restaurant smooch now and then or is it disrespectful and/or gross?
From my perspective, kissing on the lips is fine. Even appreciated. Kissing many times throughout dinner is wonderful. It is nice to be with your loved one and you should be happy and display that to her and to others around you. Even fondling a leg underneath the table is a great way to say I love you and completely appropriate.
Along with a little fondling of the leg, try running your hand up your loved one's back. This is an excellent display of affection, some would even say that it is a remarkable display of love and is warmly accepted by your date or spouse.
But once you kiss longer than one minute, you have crossed the line.
Now, with this being said, it does not mean that I am going to turn away and not watch this affection. I mean, it is impossible to turn away. But it should be taken into consideration that this is not kosher.
In fact, there is a pretty good chance that I am going to take out my cell phone and take a picture. It is in my blood. I have to look. I don't want to; I have to. I am not proud of it, it is just a fact of nature.
It is no different then when I went to the Dueling Pianos at the New York, New York (I KNOW, we go there a lot) and a woman broke her foot from jumping in the air to her favorite Van Halen song (try to guess which one).
How could I know it was broken? How was I so sure? Ah, well, the bone was sticking out of her ankle. Clean out. Holly kept telling me to turn away, but it was impossible. I was drawn to it. I had to look. I had to stare. It took everything I had not to take a picture with my phone. Seeing my vulnerability and sensing her impending embarrassment, Holly actually took my phone away from me and put it in her purse. So, you see, it is in my blood. I have to look.
And although I don't condone it at all times, public affection has its place and is appreciated. For example, I recently gave Holly two large hickeys on her neck. Somehow, she did not see these, or feel these, until she went to yoga the next day for the entire world to witness.
And while she complained, I argued that a woman celebrating her 14th wedding anniversary should wear these hickeys as she would wear a badge of honor. They say to the world that this person is loved, cherished and HOT!
Even though I lost this argument, I felt that my point had been made. And while these hickeys where not given in public, they were displayed in public, which solidified that affection had taken place.
So let's hear from you. Yes, you. You now have to comment. Yes, you know who I’m talking to. Yeah, you, the one who is reading this online. Go comment. How do you feel about PDA?
Monday, October 20, 2008
The things we do when we are young...
The following was an introduction posted by Brandon Stout, one of my favorite people from Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions, regarding a feature for our alumni group. Memories like the one written below are priceless.
I had completely forgotten that this ever happened, but it instantly brought back a flood of memories from high school. And, more importantly, I think we would all agree that the truly mean thing to do would have been to let someone go outside the locker room with their shirt on inside out. Am I right or am I right?
-------------
Fellow CHS Alumni,
I remember one not-so-fine morning when I went entered P.E. class at Hunter Jr. High with my shirt inside out. Of course, I didn't realize it was inside out, but Matt Brimhall couldn't possibly miss something that tease-worthy. To my instant dismay, he invented a new song, on the spot, just for me. It was to the tune of "Shout, shout, let it all out", but instead, Matt sang "Stout, Stout, your shirt's inside out".
I have since enjoyed singing that same song to my son a number of times. Matt is part of a group of friends that went to school together for 13 years, from Kindergarten to 12th grade. We were the first group of students to finish 7 years at Douglas T. Orchard Elementary, the first group of students to finish 3 years at Hunter Jr. High, and we finished our last years at Cyprus, as old as the state, or so it seemed compared to the other schools.
I had completely forgotten that this ever happened, but it instantly brought back a flood of memories from high school. And, more importantly, I think we would all agree that the truly mean thing to do would have been to let someone go outside the locker room with their shirt on inside out. Am I right or am I right?
-------------
Fellow CHS Alumni,
I remember one not-so-fine morning when I went entered P.E. class at Hunter Jr. High with my shirt inside out. Of course, I didn't realize it was inside out, but Matt Brimhall couldn't possibly miss something that tease-worthy. To my instant dismay, he invented a new song, on the spot, just for me. It was to the tune of "Shout, shout, let it all out", but instead, Matt sang "Stout, Stout, your shirt's inside out".
I have since enjoyed singing that same song to my son a number of times. Matt is part of a group of friends that went to school together for 13 years, from Kindergarten to 12th grade. We were the first group of students to finish 7 years at Douglas T. Orchard Elementary, the first group of students to finish 3 years at Hunter Jr. High, and we finished our last years at Cyprus, as old as the state, or so it seemed compared to the other schools.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Goals...
This is a photo of one of our business associates from Lehman Brothers. She was a tremendous resource for our company when I was working for Del American, building high-rise residential condominiums near the Strip.When you look back at this photo, it is hard to believe that this company is now out of business. Its roots date back more than 144 years, when the company's founder provided financing for cotton farmers in the south.
And while no one could have predicted the remarkable roller coaster ride in the global financial markets, each of us should have been able to predict how nice my hair looks in this photo.
Nearly every scholar, and even some little league baseball coaches, preach the virtues of making goals, writing them down and achieving them. Therefore, I have taken this opportunity to state, in a public forum, that my new top priority is to grow my hair back to this length. And then make it blonde.
And while many of you may be thinking to yourself that I should focus my goals and efforts on the economy, or my kids or fixing that stupid tile in my living room that has been chipped for what seems like forever, all of these things must come second to my new goal of growing out my hair.
The truth is, I believe that when you look good, you feel good. And really, all of those problems will basically go away if I can get my hair looking like this again. Like they all say, blondes do have more fun, and I am sure that this new style will throw me right into that category.
And for those of you who are wondering why on earth I'm wearing Elvis sunglasses at night, you need look no further than the bathroom attendant at the Palms Restaurant in Caesars Palace. Which leads me to wonder, why are there bathroom attendants in the first place and why am I supposed to tip them?
If, for example, they gave me advice on going to the bathroom, I would be more than happy to give them a buck or two, but as it is, bathroom attendants do nothing more than force me to skip the process of washing my hands after using the establishment. These bathroom mafia types manipulate you into feeling guilty if you use any of their stuff, including water, so in an effort to save a buck or two, I will wash my hands outside.
However, on this night it was my birthday and my boss purchased these sunglasses from the bathroom attendant, who was appropriately, for Vegas, dressed as Elvis. This was my finest moment ever in a bathroom and a goal I had long desired to accomplish. As I walked out of the stall, not only did my boss drop money into the tip jar for me, which allowed me to use any cologne I wanted to sample, he also bought me a pair of these glasses to wear for the rest of the night.
Which proves my entire point. Anything is possible, if you will simply start making goals.
PS: Jimmy, get over here and fix that chip in my tile.
PSS: I am not really this shallow. OK, maybe I am, because I made up this entire story so that I could post this photo online. So don't worry, I am even more shallow than you may have thought.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Holly, 1989, Drill Team Photo...
Holly is directly in the center, standing up, proudly representing Orem High. Is it just me, or does it look like every girl who attended Orem High had to be blonde or at least be willing to get their hair frosted.Wednesday, October 8, 2008
May I have another...
One of my brothers is a Marriage and Family Therapist. He went to a number of years of school, earned his PhD and is very talented. Being a therapist and having a number of clients, he has a confidential phone system where you can confess anything you would like to him in private.I, however, being somewhat of a jokester love to leave messages on this line that may or may not be 100 percent true. Quite frequently, these messages revolve around my manhood and its length. I mean, 38 inches is not much, but you have to work with what you were endowed with, am I right?
Earlier today, however, my brother returned my call, because he is nice and, more than likely to ask me to stop leaving crude messages about my romantic talents.
And while I apologized for stating the truth, I really wanted to find out what was so confidential that it had to be stated on a private and secure phone line.
I was convinced that the results had to be shocking. Really, when you think about it, no one ever calls a confidential line and says, “I just called to say I love my spouse.” In fact, more than likely, they would always use a confidential line to confess a plan to whack their spouse.
After my less than heartfelt apology, I asked him, “What do people say on your confidential line. What could be so private?”
He told me that no one really said anything shocking on that line and it was more of a convenience issue to make people feel more comfortable.
But that answer was not good enough for me. I wanted more. I needed to dig deeper. So I followed up by saying something like the following:
“Stop lying to me, I bet they say things like ‘I just punched my husband,’ or something.”
His response: “Oh no, I never deal with people who have it that bad in their marriage.”
“Oh, yeah, ah, that would be bad, I guess,” I said, as I sheepishly hung up the phone. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I called my wife and said, “I guess we’re the worst of the worst.”
You see, I have a pretty good marriage, and even I have been punched by my wife. We’re men. We deserve it. It comes with the territory. And to be specific, I am not even counting the time they had to use smelling sauce to wake me up. OK, the smelling sauce is a joke.
But it is not all about the punches. No sir, you also have to include the eye lash curler, lip stick case and shoes that have been hurled in my general direction. While most of those missed the mark, they did send a message.
And that message is a simple one: Without fail, in every good marriage, you are going to have conflict, or as us optimists like to call it, “passion.” And when that passion is displayed, you never really know what you are going to get.
But when you think about it, passion is the act of showing you care. It is the glue that holds everything together. It is the bond that makes life worth living. It is what makes life exciting.
Every football coach I ever had, said, “You better start worrying, when I stop yelling, because that is a sure sign that I have given up on you.”
It is no different in a relationship. Without passion, without excitement, without love, what do you have? The answer, in short, is nothing.
Without passion, you are left with two people, living together, who lack the desire to care, to give and to receive. You are left with hollow individuals who are living life through the motions, but who are empty on the inside.
It should be reassuring that your spouse loves you enough to scream, shout, yell, punch or fight for you or with you. It shows they care; that they are willing to go through the deepest, darkest moments with you, without giving up on you.
That is love. That is unconditional support. That is true romance.
Without fail, passion is the key to happiness and to a fulfilling relationship. And while passion may lead us to do things we normally would not do, no one is ever going to judge anyone for loving with their entire heart, for acting like a fool for love.
Passion shows that you are invested, that you are committed and that you are in love. In the end, without a doubt, I will always trade the unintended quick right hook to the jaw for a life filled with passion.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Who knew kids took this much time...
How much is too much? Does anyone have an answer for this question? It seems impossible to fully comprehend. Can you be too rich? Too thin? Too cute? Too smart? No, no, no and of course not. But I have found out that you can be too busy.
As school started this year, each one of our kids started a sport. Soccer, softball and soccer, respectively. It may sound like I mistakenly listed soccer twice, until you realize I have five kids two of whom play soccer in different sections of the city.
Even better, each of these aspiring athletes have two practices a week and then a game on Sat. Oh, and Boston has two games on Saturday and sometimes he has a game on Friday night, which is awesome and makes me totally love his coach and everyone in his league.
Then, to further fragment ourselves, we decided to “encourage” Boston to start playing an instrument. He picked the Baritone Sax, which is huge by the way and somewhat awkward to carry around, unless you’re the Hulk, but I don’t remember him having a lot of patience in the musical area.
He, Boston, not the Hulk (I really don't know what the Hulk is doing now), is currently learning to play the score from Star Wars, which accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance onto the screen. I’ve asked him to follow me around and begin playing this tune whenever I walk into our home or an important business meeting to psyche out my other children or business partners. It’s been VERY effective.
But with Boston picking up an extra talent, we decided it was important to “encourage” Brooklyn and London to participate in a cheerleading camp, which went every night for a week and included a, you guessed it, game on Friday night. Brilliant.
Throw in scouts, campouts (YES! I can camp.) and church activities and the week starts to become a non-stop, caffeinated sprint from one activity to another.
But we can’t be the only ones, right?
Who else is pulling out their hair as they drive from practice to practice?
Anyone?
Bueller. Bueller.
This entry is dedicated to Matt Smith, my brother-in-law, who said my posts where too long to read, when he visited my house…I think its more about his attention span, but I digress.
PS – "Digress" means to turn aside especially from the main subject, Matt. Just in case you were wondering…
PSS – “Encourage” means I had no shot in heaven or you know where, in changing the outcome, so I simply relented.
As school started this year, each one of our kids started a sport. Soccer, softball and soccer, respectively. It may sound like I mistakenly listed soccer twice, until you realize I have five kids two of whom play soccer in different sections of the city.
Even better, each of these aspiring athletes have two practices a week and then a game on Sat. Oh, and Boston has two games on Saturday and sometimes he has a game on Friday night, which is awesome and makes me totally love his coach and everyone in his league.
Then, to further fragment ourselves, we decided to “encourage” Boston to start playing an instrument. He picked the Baritone Sax, which is huge by the way and somewhat awkward to carry around, unless you’re the Hulk, but I don’t remember him having a lot of patience in the musical area.
He, Boston, not the Hulk (I really don't know what the Hulk is doing now), is currently learning to play the score from Star Wars, which accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance onto the screen. I’ve asked him to follow me around and begin playing this tune whenever I walk into our home or an important business meeting to psyche out my other children or business partners. It’s been VERY effective.
But with Boston picking up an extra talent, we decided it was important to “encourage” Brooklyn and London to participate in a cheerleading camp, which went every night for a week and included a, you guessed it, game on Friday night. Brilliant.
Throw in scouts, campouts (YES! I can camp.) and church activities and the week starts to become a non-stop, caffeinated sprint from one activity to another.
But we can’t be the only ones, right?
Who else is pulling out their hair as they drive from practice to practice?
Anyone?
Bueller. Bueller.
This entry is dedicated to Matt Smith, my brother-in-law, who said my posts where too long to read, when he visited my house…I think its more about his attention span, but I digress.
PS – "Digress" means to turn aside especially from the main subject, Matt. Just in case you were wondering…
PSS – “Encourage” means I had no shot in heaven or you know where, in changing the outcome, so I simply relented.
Cell phones...for kids?
My son started sixth grade this year, which meant he was sent packing from his cushy elementary school and was asked to enter the cold, heartless world of middle school. With a new schedule and a set of busy parents, we wanted to ensure that when we inevitably lost him, it may be easier for us or the police to find him.Using fear as a motivating factor, we had a weak moment and broke down and bought him a cell phone. As you may imagine, we are now in constant communication. I know when he is relaxing after school, when he is preparing to start school and when he attempting to miss school.
I am informed. I get text messages all day long, from sun up to sun down. We are connected. I know when it is raining by our house, when he is in the backyard and when he is in the bathroom, photos included.
Yes. I even know what he had for an afternoon snack. No, not from photos of his waste (you sick people), but from the pictures he takes and sends me of his peanut butter sandwich, right before he eats it.
But how many texts are too many? 13 texts? 20 texts? 50 texts? I picked up my phone the other day and I had more than 75 texts from my kids. But don’t worry, each text was carefully crafted and contained a vital piece of critical information, just like the photo above. Some texts had pictures of my son, some photos included all of my kids, while some showed me how much they loved their toys, which now all have names and a special place in our lives and my heart.
Those texts that did not include photos of people or inanimate objects dealt with such weighty issues as, “Hey.” And, “What is going on?” And, “Whatcha doing? Or, "Can we download a Jonas Brothers' song from iTunes?" Which, by the way, is always yes, because they are simply too talented to ignore.
Each and every one of you have now been warned. if you get your son a phone, you'll get into the details of my life, which is the entire point, right?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Give Me Some Power…
By Matthew Brimhall and Guest Columnist Jennifer Robinson Is it wrong that I love power bars? I love everything about them. The texture on my tongue, the somewhat nauseating flavor, the fake chocolate. You name it, I love it.
The thing is that they really don’t make me more powerful. When it comes to everyday things, they do work a little, though. I feel more robust, more ready to rock. Maybe it’s mental? Who knows. All I know is that I can’t stay away from those little nuggets of well…power.
Try this exercise. Imagine that all of the aisles at GNC have a different type of super power. The middle aisle is flying, the one to the right is x-ray vision, and the one at the other end is super speed. How about super hearing? That would be great when your kids are whispering about tying you up, while your wife is hanging out with her friends.
(YEAH, my kids did that. I, innocently lying on the couch asleep, them, tying up my arms and feet with tape. Not funny. It took me twenty minutes to get loose and 30 minutes to stick each of their heads in the toilet. I missed an entire hour of TV).
I, for one, would want to fly. I love to travel, but hate going through security. You have to show them your laptop and take off your belt. The worst is when they make you take off your shoes. I despise walking bare foot on the airport floor - GQ recommends going without socks with some types of pants in the summer. It gives you a very streamlined look and makes you feel like you are on vacation.
But flying would be remarkable. If I wanted to go to the Bahamas for a vacation, I would not have to consult a travel agent; I would simply put my family on my back and fly there. Also, while in the Bahamas, after a delicious meal at the resort, I could point to my ear, as if I am sensing trouble, and fly away right before the check comes. No one is going to worry about sticking me for a $400 bill after that type of exit.
So, tell me, what type of power bar are you looking for?
The thing is that they really don’t make me more powerful. When it comes to everyday things, they do work a little, though. I feel more robust, more ready to rock. Maybe it’s mental? Who knows. All I know is that I can’t stay away from those little nuggets of well…power.
Try this exercise. Imagine that all of the aisles at GNC have a different type of super power. The middle aisle is flying, the one to the right is x-ray vision, and the one at the other end is super speed. How about super hearing? That would be great when your kids are whispering about tying you up, while your wife is hanging out with her friends.
(YEAH, my kids did that. I, innocently lying on the couch asleep, them, tying up my arms and feet with tape. Not funny. It took me twenty minutes to get loose and 30 minutes to stick each of their heads in the toilet. I missed an entire hour of TV).
I, for one, would want to fly. I love to travel, but hate going through security. You have to show them your laptop and take off your belt. The worst is when they make you take off your shoes. I despise walking bare foot on the airport floor - GQ recommends going without socks with some types of pants in the summer. It gives you a very streamlined look and makes you feel like you are on vacation.
But flying would be remarkable. If I wanted to go to the Bahamas for a vacation, I would not have to consult a travel agent; I would simply put my family on my back and fly there. Also, while in the Bahamas, after a delicious meal at the resort, I could point to my ear, as if I am sensing trouble, and fly away right before the check comes. No one is going to worry about sticking me for a $400 bill after that type of exit.
So, tell me, what type of power bar are you looking for?
(Editor's note: You to can be a guest columnist if you are witty, an excellent writer and editor and, most importantly, you are willing to forward the link to every single one of your friends)
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Show me the...
One of my favorite past times is looking for a deal at Target or any other big box retailer. I love to rummage through the $3 bin of CDs or meticulously scan the $5 DVD rack. I’ve convinced myself that as my wife is busy buying a bunch of things that we may or may not need, if I can somehow find a hidden treasure, at a reduced price then everything is even. This lets me feel like I have settled the score and sometimes even swung it in my favor, although it really just ends up as $250 for Target, $5 for me. Or really, just $255 for Target.It was one such Saturday of bargain hunting where I came across a $5 price tag on Jerry MaGuire, one of the greatest movies of all time. This had to be a typo, I thought to myself. I just could not believe that Jerry MaGuire was listed for $5. I was so happy that I stuck the DVD up my shirt, so that no one else would be able to take it from me before I checked out.
After spending an hour or so with the store security explaining to them that I had, in fact, planned on buying the DVD, I was on my way home to watch it. Jerry MaGuire shows the true genius of taking my two favorite things, sports and chick flick movies, and combining them.
Now there are movies you could quote and there are movies you should quote. Movies that you should quote teach you something. Jerry MaGuire is that movie. It displays the lessons of life so clearly and accurately, that its lines should be memorized, sewn on a pillow or carried around in a wallet. I mean, if you are a fanatic or something.
Take, for example, Renee Zellweger’s monologue in the kitchen, after she goes out on a date with Jerry. She is standing by the sink, pouring herself a cup of coffee and is in the process of explaining her relationship to her well meaning, if not completely judgmental sister, when she says, “I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.”
This could be one of the most beautiful lines ever written. All women believe that men have their share of inadequacies. However, the best women love their men for those inadequacies and see unprecedented potential in them as individuals, providers and lovers. I LOVE her for saying this. I LOVE her for having hope and for her faith in the person she loves, who may be just a little flawed.
And while this is a great line, the show gets even better.
Months later, after doubting their entire relationship, Tom Cruise (because men have inadequacies) busts into their family room which is now filled with a group of 30 divorced women and proclaims his deep love for his wife in a series of passionate phrases that climaxes with, “I love you. You... you complete me.”
In truth, nothing could be more fulfilling. When you find an individual who truly completes you, you have everything. Finding that person who is there for you and makes up for your weakness, is the most important aspect of life. I love this line and I love my wife for fulfilling this role in my life.
But almost better than his line is her response when she says, “Shut up, just shut up. You had me at ‘hello.’" Which translates into, I have been here for you, I will always be here for you and I will never stop being here for you. There is nothing more loving than someone who loves you unconditionally. This is the type of person who sees everything, your light and your dark, and still loves you regardless of the dark.
But maybe the best is Cuba Gooding Jr.'s search of Kwan. A word he created to express his search for true happiness and true love. The entire package, the worth of everything. He says, “Some dudes might have the 'coin,' but they will never have the 'Kwan.' It means love, respect, community, and the dollars too. The entire package. The Kwan.”
We should all be so focused on our desire to find the ultimate Kwan. Because when we achieve that true sense of happiness and love, we find that we are able to give others this amount of love and everyone around us begins to see life in a better light and becomes more loving in return.
Plus, how much better does life get, when someone SHOWS YOU THE MONEY!
And, maybe the best line in the entire show is below….
Ray: D'you know that the human head weighs 8 pounds?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that Troy Aikman, in only six years, has passed for 16,303 yards?
Ray: D'you know that bees and dogs can smell fear?
Jerry Maguire: Did you know that the career record for hits is 4,256 by Pete Rose who is NOT in the Hall of Fame?
Ray: D'you know that my next door neighbor has three rabbits?
Jerry Maguire: I... I can't compete with that!
New BlackBerry...
This, is quite frankly, awesome. I can't wait to get one.
First foldable BlackBerry unveiled
By Peter Svensson, Associated Press
NEW YORK — Research in Motion, the maker of BlackBerry phones, is set to reveal Wednesday a phone that folds in half, a departure from the slab-like design that has defined its products.
The long-rumored phone will be called the BlackBerry Pearl Flip, and will be available from T-Mobile USA and with overseas carriers later this year, at an undisclosed price.
The "flip" or "clamshell" design, where the display and keyboard are separated by a hinge, is a popular one for conventional cellphones, particularly in the U.S. Jim Balsillie, co-chief executive of RIM, said 70% of handsets in the country have this shape.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Hollywood...
Do you ever wish you would happen upon a murder? You know, you would be the first person there, as the other person (the killer) was fleeing the scene. Don’t get me wrong, it totally has its down sides. You have to deal with the blood and dirtiness of it all. And the whole sadness thing really is not that great.
I am sure you would also have to sit around all day and talk to the cops in the heat or the cold, depending on where you lived and what time of year it was. And worse, I’m sure they would want to frisk you and ask you what you were doing at the scene. Nothing is cool about getting frisked by a cop, not that I would know. It totally sounds painful and not enjoyable. So, yes, I agree, there is the potential for a bunch of drawbacks.
But, more importantly, being at the murder scene may get you discovered by a Hollywood producer, acting coach or talent agent. And that is really what I would like to take out of the experience. I know it always seems like I am in it just for me, me, me, and I kind of am, but, you know, someone has to look out for me.
Take for example when I had to go to Hong Kong for ten days in late 2005. Holly and her running partner Kami (it is a K, right Kami? I remember that Holly had spelled it with a C, and that may have made you sad. So I want to get it right.)
Anyhow, Holly and Kami were running near our house and came upon a police situation where three large dogs started charging at them, as a policeman (rookie) began discharging his weapon at the dogs and directly into the homes behind them.
And although he missed the dogs, he stopped them from attacking Holly and Kami, which made them like him even more. Even better news is that he also managed to miss all of the people in the homes, which was fortunate for him and, especially, for them.
Nothing ruins a good day like getting shot by a cop. Unfortunately, I only know this through third hand accounts and never from a first hand experience. So I will have to take their word for it, but it does seem to make a great deal of sense.
And while Holly and Kami were not hurt in the incident, they were pulled in front of a TV camera and asked to describe what had happened for all of America to see. Well, at least the people in Las Vegas, at 7:55 a.m. on the third rated station in the area.
As Holly described the incident for the reporter, the TV cameras zoomed in on her face for what seemed like forever. Being professional newsmen, they wanted to ensure that the audience felt the suffering she had endured. They wanted the audience to sympathize with her and live the ordeal through her eyes.
As I watched the tape, I was amazed how long they stayed on her face. It seemed to me like she was on air for more than five minutes. It felt like forever. They asked her to discuss all of the drama to re-count every detail. I was completely transfixed as she re-lived the moment.
I am quite sure that if a Hollywood producer had been in Las Vegas and awake for the morning news (which would never happen; they may not even be back to the hotel room at that time of day), Holly would be ordering her live in man servant to buff her toes better, instead of telling me to do it. Her tone is so harsh sometimes. I am just a man with a buffer.
Anyway, this is why it is key that it be a murder and a high profile one at that. Before OJ whacked his wife and her lover, who was Kato Kalen? He was simply a person who crashed on someone’s couch. But you can’t talk to one person, age 32 – 72, who does not know who he is now.
But this type of fortunate event could not happen without a great deal of planning and preparation. It is going to be key that I always look my best, through a series of wardrobe upgrades that may be a little pricey now, but will clearly pay off when I sign my first movie contract. I will also have to start wearing a little base or foundation to ensure that the camera does not wash me out. It has a tendency to do that, you know.
And, last but not least, I have got to work on my look of surprise and, more importantly, desperation. Those two looks will be key when the camera pans down and they see a man filled with inner strength and determination, who looks good for the camera and has on an excellent outfit.
This sense of inner-strength and determination should be a mix somewhere between Peter Parker and Batman - two worthy men and two worthy adversaries once I hit the Hollywood scene.
But I guess I should not get my hopes up too high. I mean, what are the chances of an average guy like me seeing a murder. I guess guys like Kato Kalen have all the luck.
I am sure you would also have to sit around all day and talk to the cops in the heat or the cold, depending on where you lived and what time of year it was. And worse, I’m sure they would want to frisk you and ask you what you were doing at the scene. Nothing is cool about getting frisked by a cop, not that I would know. It totally sounds painful and not enjoyable. So, yes, I agree, there is the potential for a bunch of drawbacks.
But, more importantly, being at the murder scene may get you discovered by a Hollywood producer, acting coach or talent agent. And that is really what I would like to take out of the experience. I know it always seems like I am in it just for me, me, me, and I kind of am, but, you know, someone has to look out for me.
Take for example when I had to go to Hong Kong for ten days in late 2005. Holly and her running partner Kami (it is a K, right Kami? I remember that Holly had spelled it with a C, and that may have made you sad. So I want to get it right.)
Anyhow, Holly and Kami were running near our house and came upon a police situation where three large dogs started charging at them, as a policeman (rookie) began discharging his weapon at the dogs and directly into the homes behind them.
And although he missed the dogs, he stopped them from attacking Holly and Kami, which made them like him even more. Even better news is that he also managed to miss all of the people in the homes, which was fortunate for him and, especially, for them.
Nothing ruins a good day like getting shot by a cop. Unfortunately, I only know this through third hand accounts and never from a first hand experience. So I will have to take their word for it, but it does seem to make a great deal of sense.
And while Holly and Kami were not hurt in the incident, they were pulled in front of a TV camera and asked to describe what had happened for all of America to see. Well, at least the people in Las Vegas, at 7:55 a.m. on the third rated station in the area.
As Holly described the incident for the reporter, the TV cameras zoomed in on her face for what seemed like forever. Being professional newsmen, they wanted to ensure that the audience felt the suffering she had endured. They wanted the audience to sympathize with her and live the ordeal through her eyes.
As I watched the tape, I was amazed how long they stayed on her face. It seemed to me like she was on air for more than five minutes. It felt like forever. They asked her to discuss all of the drama to re-count every detail. I was completely transfixed as she re-lived the moment.
I am quite sure that if a Hollywood producer had been in Las Vegas and awake for the morning news (which would never happen; they may not even be back to the hotel room at that time of day), Holly would be ordering her live in man servant to buff her toes better, instead of telling me to do it. Her tone is so harsh sometimes. I am just a man with a buffer.
Anyway, this is why it is key that it be a murder and a high profile one at that. Before OJ whacked his wife and her lover, who was Kato Kalen? He was simply a person who crashed on someone’s couch. But you can’t talk to one person, age 32 – 72, who does not know who he is now.
But this type of fortunate event could not happen without a great deal of planning and preparation. It is going to be key that I always look my best, through a series of wardrobe upgrades that may be a little pricey now, but will clearly pay off when I sign my first movie contract. I will also have to start wearing a little base or foundation to ensure that the camera does not wash me out. It has a tendency to do that, you know.
And, last but not least, I have got to work on my look of surprise and, more importantly, desperation. Those two looks will be key when the camera pans down and they see a man filled with inner strength and determination, who looks good for the camera and has on an excellent outfit.
This sense of inner-strength and determination should be a mix somewhere between Peter Parker and Batman - two worthy men and two worthy adversaries once I hit the Hollywood scene.
But I guess I should not get my hopes up too high. I mean, what are the chances of an average guy like me seeing a murder. I guess guys like Kato Kalen have all the luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
